


Good Boy

by leashy_bebes



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Puppy Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leashy_bebes/pseuds/leashy_bebes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes Bruce a lot longer than it should to work it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kink bingo 'animal play' square. Thanks to isisanubis for the beta

The first time it happens Bruce barely even notices. Tony appears in the living room, drops down onto the floor next to Bruce's feet and leans against his legs. He sighs pretty hugely as he sits, and Bruce thinks it's just...just Tony demanding attention like usual, basically. God forbid he let anyone get away with not being at least half-focused on him, Bruce thinks, with more affection than he would have ever expected a few months ago.

"I am so goddamn tired," Tony says in a small voice, and he really must be, because Bruce has never heard him admit it before, even when he is mixing up his words and stumbling into walls.

"Haul your ass up on the couch and go to sleep," Bruce advises him.

Tony shrugs against Bruce's leg and turns a little to drop his head onto Bruce's knee, shifting so he's almost curled around Bruce's lower leg. "I'm good," he says.

Bruce raises his eyebrows at that, but he's soon distracted again by the tablet in his hand, by the data that completely refuses to cooperate. He notices a while later that Tony is asleep, one hand curled loosely around the back of Bruce's ankle. Bruce frowns a little but decides to just let Tony sleep. He obviously needs it.

*

The second time it's basically the same, except Tony doesn't go to sleep so quick, even though he looks, if possible, more wrung out than the last time. He yawns a couple times, his breath hot even though the denim of Bruce's jeans.

Bruce squeezes his shoulder. "You okay, Tony?"

Tony doesn't answer, just makes a low humming sort of noise and rolls his shoulders in what might be a shrug. It's...definitely a little strange. Bruce can see the light of the screens reflected in Tony's eyes, so he knows the other man hasn't drifted off to sleep yet, but Tony isn't talking. He's not working either, no tablet in his hands, no holograms spinning outward from his fingertips.

Bruce is sort of waiting for Tony to pinch at his achilles tendon, or jab him in the calf or any of the stuff he does that's part Hulk-baiting and part 'hey, look at me!' Nothing happens though, and Bruce realises it's the first time he's seen Tony like this: actually quiet, and actually still. 

Something is definitely going on here, but before Bruce can think about it much more, Tony's asleep again.

*

The third time, Bruce, holds out a hand to stop Tony before he can drop to the floor. Tony looks momentarily crestfallen but brightens up when Bruce drops one of the square cushions onto the floor. Bruce adds 'decreased affect regulation' to the list of data points about what this does to (for?) Tony.

This time, he drops his hand onto Tony's shoulder and squeezes rhythmically, not quite massaging but almost. Tony starts to relax, and tenses up again when he realises what he's doing. That happens a couple times, and Bruce can't help wondering. Tony's not the type he would have pegged to need quiet time, if that's what this is. 

Bruce has to admit that the weight of Tony against his leg, the feel of him breathing, the shock of his silence, are all pretty restful. He keeps his eyes on the book he was reading before Tony arrived but he doesn't take much in. 

Tony shifts around after a while, kind of rubs his face against Bruce's leg, and lets out a sigh that runs right through him. Bruce slides his hand up to the scruff of Tony's neck, grips gently. 

"Shh," he says, thumb brushing through the short hairs at Tony's nape.

Tony relaxes all at once, and he's asleep inside three minutes.

*

By the fourth time, they've been sleeping together for a few weeks, so Bruce lets his hand drop to Tony's hair straight away, just like he's wanted to since the first time. He brushes it into place and messes it up again, scratches at Tony's scalp, traces the lines of his stupid beard. Even that's done with affection though, and Tony smiles even if he doesn't open his eyes.

Tony curls closer, arms around Bruce's lower legs, his head a comfortable weight on Bruce's knee. This time Bruce can't be bothered to pretend he's working. He just tips his head back against the couch and curls his fingers into Tony's hair again and again.

Tony's far from a private person, and Bruce can't help but love it when some facet of Tony's character emerges which is unexpected, simply because it's so unusual. The things Tony doesn't show the world are the things he keeps for himself, and getting to share in them is, to borrow Tony's phrase, a terrible privilege. So he's not thinking much beyond that sometimes, Tony likes to sit at his feet in silence. That's huge enough that he doesn't think to look any deeper.

*

It's not until the fifth time that he starts to get it.

It's been a really crappy day all round. Natasha and Clint limped back at four in the morning from a SHIELD mission, and that was enough to set all of them on edge. Some message from Asgard around mid-morning put Thor into one of his very rare off days, and the absence of his usual good cheer has been palpable. Then there was the Doombot attack while Tony was in a meeting, leaving them with no aerial support for the first half hour, and Bruce with no choice but to let the other guy out to play. Steve took the brunt of the injuries from the bots, and although he's pretty much healed by now, Bruce knew from the start that Tony was going to feel shitty about that.

So this time when Tony walks right into Bruce's room like he can't think of anywhere else to belong, Bruce doesn't hesitate. He shifts his legs, drops a cushion to the floor, and can't help a fond smile when Tony's sigh of relief is so audible it's nearly a moan. Tony almost stumbles, he's so eager to cross the room. When he does drop down, the hug he gives Bruce's legs is fierce but brief. He drops it in favour of rubbing his face against Bruce's leg, eyes squeezed tightly shut, a frown carved between his brows. And then he makes a very particular sound.

Normally when they've done this it's been with the TV on in the background, or at the very least the radio. There's always been some kind of background noise, so maybe it's happened every time and just been drowned out, but either way, Bruce doesn't spot it at once. It's not until almost half an hour later, when Tony is calm and Bruce is getting that way, that realisation prickles.

It was a whine, that sound Tony made. Maybe it escaped Bruce because Tony is a master of the whiny tone when he wants to be, but that's just it. _Tone_. This wasn't a tone though, it was just a whine, muted and pressed into Bruce's leg like Tony had been debating whether or not to let it out. There are not many things that matter enough to Tony for him to think twice about them.

Without forming the thoughts into actual words, Bruce turns what was a soft stroke over Tony's hair into a brisk scratch at his scalp. Tony makes a low noise in his throat this time, turns his head into the touch.

"You like that?" Bruce asks, experimenting.

The noise that escapes Tony this time is still a whine, but it's a...happy one? Okay. Bruce rubs down the back of Tony's neck, dips fingers under his t-shirt. He feels a little out of his depth, but then Bruce has spent his whole life feeling out of his depth, so it's not really a complaint.

"Are you hungry?" he asks. Tony never speaks on nights like this, not until after he has unfolded himself from his spot on the floor and claimed the five sixths of the couch he sees as his birthright. Bruce figures that if he's shooting wrong here, Tony will break the silence and make it clear. He doesn't though, just tilts his head to look up at Bruce, eyes bright, smile almost blinding, and nods once. He doesn't say a word. Right track after all, Bruce thinks.

Tony was absurdly but predictably over-generous with the living quarters he designed within days of meeting them all, so Bruce doesn't have to go far. They all tend to congregate in the communal kitchen, but Bruce keeps his own well stocked enough for emergency snacks when he stumbles to bed and belatedly realises he hasn't eaten all day. 

Bruce is going on instinct here, but that's alright.

"Stay there," he says, and manages at the last second not to make it a request. Tony doesn't respond except by shifting his weight off Bruce's leg to let him stand. In the kitchen, Bruce butters a couple of pieces of olive bread, slices some cheese, and adds a handful of cherry tomatoes and small bunch of grapes to the tray.

Back in the lounge Tony's waiting where Bruce left him, looking out the window at the city. He turns as soon as he hears Bruce coming, another of those warm, soft smiles gracing his face. Bruce sits down again, and Tony's curled around his leg again in a flash. He sets the plate on his right knee, making sure Tony's aware of it, He doesn't make his usual attempts to help himself, and Bruce feels the familiar slow burning excitement that comes from testing a hypothesis.

He tears a corner off one of the slices of bread and offers it to Tony. Tony hesitates for a moment, but like he's waiting for Bruce to withdraw the offer, not debating whether or not to accept it. He does though, turning his head almost delicately to take the scrap of bread from Bruce's fingers. He's careful as he takes it, and Bruce only feels the barest brush of his lips. The silence crackles between them and Bruce takes a bite of bread before tearing off another piece for Tony. 

They go through the plate like that, and when they're done Bruce sets it aside hastily. He leans forward a little, enough that he can settle one hand between Tony's shoulder blades, encouraging him even closer than he's pressing himself. Tony's – not shaking, but kind of _humming_ all over with nervous energy. It reminds Bruce of the arc reactor, the faint thrum that makes up the backdrop of most of Bruce's nights – the ones where they drag themselves out of the lab, anyway. That's a much fainter shiver though, and anyway, Bruce knew within half an hour of playing with a prototype how to make it utterly soundless, so that little buzz has to be intentional. This, though...

Bruce knows better than to try striking up a conversation with Tony right now. He tangles his fingers in Tony's hair instead, tighter and harder than he usually would, but he thinks they both need it right now. It's a long time until the grip Tony has on him loosens, until he curls out of his hunch a bit. He stays splayed against Bruce's leg but relaxed now, maybe more relaxed than Bruce has ever seen him. 

After a while he shifts, maybe a little embarrassed, curling up tight at Bruce's feet and resting his temple on the outside Bruce's knee, facing away from him. Bruce drops a hand into his hair, petting in little circles. From this angle he can just about see Tony's eyelashes flutter.

Bruce wouldn't be where he is today if he treated the scientific method as more than guidelines, so he does the unacceptable and assumes something. He _also_ wouldn't be where he is today if he didn't test his hypotheses, so he fits his palm around Tony's nape, not gripping at all, just touching.

"Hey," he says, deliberately quiet so Tony knows he doesn't expect a response. "You're a good boy."

He sees the hitch in Tony's shoulders, the split-second instinct to protest, but it gives way. Tony stays where he is and Bruce keeps playing with his hair until he loosens up again, both of them staring unseeing at the tv screen the whole time.

*

After that, he decides they probably better talk about it. 

"Oh _god_ ," Tony says, with a frankly theatrical groan. "Must we?"

"I think we must."

Tony rolls his eyes. "Wonderful. Can I at least sit?"

It's obvious he doesn't mean _on a chair_ , and Bruce hesitates. "I need you to talk."

"I can do that," Tony says. "I am a _pro_ at that. Come on, okay, let's do that."

The flurry of words could just as easily mean irritation as anxiety, but Bruce doubts it somehow. "Okay, Tony. Go sit," he says, and it's somehow easier to use that particular command now Tony's said it. "I'll meet you there."

Tony looks like he wants to argue but he goes. Bruce stays there in the lab, reciting Fibonacci sequences until he feels like long enough's gone past to follow Tony. JARVIS's smooth voice in the elevator informs him that Tony's gone to his own suite. That's unusual, for this, anyway. Bruce's rooms, yes; the communal areas, yes, but this has always been something Bruce thinks Tony has been keeping at arm's length by keeping it out of his own space.

When he gets there Tony's sitting in front of the couch, lights at about thirty percent. He looks thoughtful but not quite relaxed and as soon as Bruce sits, he opens his mouth.

"Look," he says. "Maybe you're the type to analyse your kinks, but I'm really, really not. It gets me off."

Bruce doesn't bother to point out that Tony has _not_ actually got off once while they were doing...whatever it is they were doing. Bruce was all set to use whatever word Tony has for it, but it turns out Tony doesn't have one.

"I like it," Tony says, and it sounds like the truth, but Bruce waits a little longer on instinct. "Sometimes I need it," he blurts, and there it is. There's the fact at the heart of it.

"Okay," Bruce says.

"O _kay_?" Tony demands, twisting around to look at Bruce.

He just shrugs. "Okay."

Sometimes the only way to get details out of Tony is to annoy him into giving them up, so Bruce just raises his eyebrows and relaxes back into the couch, drumming his fingers against Tony's shoulder.

"Just don't – none of that 'bad puppy', rolled up newspaper crap. I just want – " He shrugs, and Bruce can practically hear the 'Tony Stark doesn't do bashful' pep talk he's giving himself. "To eat from your hand and rub my face on you, okay?"

Bruce grins and rubs the back of Tony's neck. "You got it, Tony."

"I can see you smiling, asshole."

Bruce bares his teeth at Tony in the reflection from the tv screen. "So. Bearing in mind what you just said..."

"Uh-huh?"

"How does 'good puppy' sit with you?"

Tony's whole posture changes, like he's melted into the spaces between them. He lets out an almost hurt, whimpery noise before he bites it off with an audible gasp.

"Tony," Bruce reminds him. "Words."

"Really good," Tony says, turning his face to press it to Bruce's leg. "Bruce, please."

Bruce gets a startlingly clear image of a collar and a leash, looped three times around his fist. Another time, maybe. He shifts, leans back into the couch and lets his legs fall apart. He can _hear_ Tony breathing, ragged in his lungs. There's a heavy, heavy pause and Tony shifts, fluid in the way he is in the lab, dropping onto his hands and knees and crawling – _crawling_ – around until he's between Bruce's feet. He pitches forward, pressing his face to the inside of Bruce's thigh, rubbing against the denim hard enough that when he lifts his head to look at Bruce he has a faint red mark over one cheekbone.

Fingers slipping through Tony's hair, Bruce scratches the skin behind his ear and says, "Do what you like. Playtime."

Bruce doesn't expect the hitch that causes in Tony's breath but he just spreads his legs wider, feels the heat when Tony's mouth opens against his jeans. He feels hot all over: his face, his throat, even his fingertips. He never thought this sloppy eagerness, the little whines catching in Tony's throat, would do it for him. But it does, especially when Tony glances up at him, his eyes – he looks stoned out of his _mind_ , narrowed to this moment, these actions. He practically squirms when Bruce pets his hair and calls him a good boy.

Tony pushes himself up further, presses his face to Bruce's stomach for a moment, his breathing coming in hard little bursts – pants, Bruce makes himself think. Tony's _panting_. He pushes Tony back gently, ignoring the little whine he gets, just long enough to undo his jeans. Tony's back before Bruce can do more than get them open, snuffling around Bruce's zip like he wants nothing more than to gulp down the heat of it. 

"Jesus, Tony," Bruce mutters. He has to rub his hand over his own face this time, has to tip his head back and look at the ceiling and just _breathe_. He can see from the way Tony's eyes crinkle that he's smiling, that he's _happy_. Bruce has to squirm his hand in under Tony's face to shove his jeans and boxers down enough at the front. The look of surprise on Tony's face when Bruce angles his dick closer is feigned, but no less adorable for it. The first lick is messy enough to surprise Bruce, but it just stays that way, sloppy and eager and _really, really good_.

There are little noises humming out of Tony's throat, vibrating against Bruce's dick and Bruce has to fight the urge to let his eyes roll back in his head and soak up the attention. He forces his eyes open and scratches his nails lightly over the nape of Tony's neck. Tony whines a little and Bruce shushes him, strokes his hand through Tony's hair, tugs his head back a bit.

"Suck it a little, Tony," Bruce says, and Tony does, just as messy and sloppy as the licks were. His mouth is so _wet_. "There's my good boy."

Bruce loses track a little, not quite sure what he's mumbling to Tony other than _good, good, good_. Tony might be the one being petted and adored but Bruce is the one that feels spoiled, feels like he's getting something he maybe has no right to. Tony's enthusiastic and clumsy, choking himself a little, not letting Bruce slow him down. He does pull away to let Bruce come though, takes it on his face and in his open mouth. Bruce fists Tony's collar in his hand, shakes and swallows his moans, the better to hear the trembling whine that shivers out of Tony.

Tony rubs his face against Bruce, smearing the leg of his pants and Bruce spreads his legs, offering. 

"There you go," he says. "You know what to do."

It takes maybe 0.003 seconds for Tony to straddle Bruce's leg, a quick, frantic hunch setting his hips rocking. His open mouth against Bruce's thigh is hot and humid, his hair starting to dampen with sweat under Bruce's hand. His jaw looks tight, like he's trapping words behind his teeth, and Bruce doesn't want that.

"That's it, that's good," he says. "Let it out, puppy."

Tony makes a choked off noise in his throat and catches a fold of denim between his teeth. Bruce can feel him gritting his teeth together through the material, tugging gently on it as he moves sloppily against the pressure of Bruce's leg. It's kind of remarkable to see Tony this way. Whatever people think – whatever Tony _wants_ them to think – he's rarely out of control. Now though, growling and whimpering and trembling under Bruce's hands, he seems...wild.

Bruce soothes him through it, stroking his hair and petting his face, and Tony nips at his fingers, tongues at them, grunts out a desperate noise and Bruce feels a burst of heat against his leg, muffled by their layers of clothing. Tony presses his face to Bruce's stomach, his shoulders heaving, his whole body shaking.

"Come on," Bruce says, when he thinks he can trust his voice. "Let's go to bed."

He chooses not to comment on the fact that Tony crawls there rather than walking.

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted [here](http://leashy-bebes.livejournal.com/339108.html) at my LJ


End file.
